


Show Me the Way Home

by SadSongsInc



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Blood As Lube, Brothers Germany & Prussia (Hetalia), Childhood Memories, Dark fic, Double Penetration, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Germany is Holy Roman Empire, Historical Hetalia, Historical References, Incest, Insane!Russia, M/M, Rape/Non-con - Freeform, Sibling Incest, Threesome - M/M/M, Violence, WWII, at some point, baltic abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2018-12-17 23:01:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11861445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SadSongsInc/pseuds/SadSongsInc
Summary: In the aftermath of World War II, Prussia is a broken man who would give anything to sit down and have a beer with his little brother. His willingness to sacrifice for the man he loves most will be his downfall, but if Prussia fades away protecting his brother, he dies peacefully.America walks the ruined streets of a ruined Europe, and finds himself growing sick of violence and cruelty. Later, he surveyed the damage of the atomic bombs with ice in his chest and horror on his face. If the nations lapse into a war again, it could be the last.   Could he possibly keep his allies from breathing in the cancerous smoke of war?





	1. Trade Faces with the Shadows, Trade Voices with the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prussia reflects on the events of the night before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lines from Churchill's speech are legit and the descriptions of the V-Day celebrations are accurate to my knowledge.

MAY 8TH, 1945

Civilians internationally rejoiced in their streets. Shouts of joy erupted as they crowded the streets of their countries, which could at long last be called their own, no war attached. Former soldiers, now lost in this fleeting new world of peace, gaze on from their bars and brothels with three common emotions: exhaustion, accomplishment, and loss. Some stood up to join in the celebration. Others barely moved at all. All of them knew it wasn't over for good. There would be more battles to fight, more soldiers to lose, and untold years of sleepless nights.

Church bells rang throughout the cities of France, announcing peace on their Victorie day. Londoners gathered before the balcony of Buckingham Palace, listening to the encouraging words of freedom after a battle well-fought. Banners and flags whip in the wind of North American land. The war was over. They had won.

Prussia listened in from the radio on the floor of his cold underground prison, a tightening knot of dread forming within him. The effect the stone walls of the bunker magnified the weight of what was being said by various world leaders. He tried to block it out, to avoid understanding all of it, but the bits and pieces that drifted in without his permission struck him hard. They echoed off the walls maddeningly, bouncing off the walls of Prussia's mind, ripping his soul apart.

Prussia couldn't decide if silence would abate his problem or intensify it. When he first awoke in the cell, days ago, much time had passed before his captors thought to check on him. Silence and darkness ate away at him immediately. The two things went hand in hand, one a hammer and the other a chisel, working together to wither away Prussia's sanity.

First, he tried to move. He found that he was bound by the hands, and in far too much pain. At least his near scream of agony upon trying to sit up had broken the hellish silence, if only for it to be replaced by heavier silence.

A thought struck him like a boulder as he tried to collect his wits.

"Ludwig?" He asked the silence, softly. His voice had been dry and raspy, days of neglect taking their toll.

The silence did not answer him. He felt a stab of anxiety burst through his veins.

"Bruder!" Prussia demanded, raising his voice, in spite of the burning protest from his throat. He waited for an answer, red eyes widening in panic despite his pain.

More silence, now heavier. It slowly pressed onto Prussia's body and his mind. More weight fell with each unanswered call. It suffocated him.

"LUDWIG!" He was shouting now. His volume steadily increased, as did his desperation. His echo reached his own ears, letting him hear the frantic crack in his voice. It mocked him.

"ANTWORTE MIR!" He screamed to the silence. More time passed like this, minutes indistinguishable from hours, hours indistinguishable from days. Eventually he'd screamed himself hoarse.

"...bitte..." Prussia pleaded with the emptiness, unable to raise his voice above a whisper. With teary eyes and crushing silence, Prussia had come full circle.

The cold knife that had been pressing into his chest since the first call for his brother was fully sheathed inside his chest now, spreading ice throughout his body. He had failed. His little brother was out there somewhere, cold and alone. Prussia was quite sure the little boy he raised had become a fine country that could handle himself under any and all circumstances. Prussia, however, could do no such thing. Not without Ludwig. The same blond haired, blue eyed, warrior of a little brother he promised to protect all those years ago. That promise shattered under the weight of the silence, and Prussia lied on his back, wallowing in its corpse.

With the freezing knife in his chest and tears streaming down his face for the first time in centuries, Prussia had cried himself to sleep.

-

Upon waking up for the second time, Prussia had been met with the last set of faces he'd wanted to see. Allies. France, England, and Russia. An oil lamp had been lit and placed on the floor between them. Light flickered off of their faces eerily. His eyes calmly stared into each of their own, while his mind tore itself to shreds. He knew exactly what happened next. The recent wars had made him more acutely aware of what happened to a nation when the war was lost.

England and France glanced at one another before silently reaching an agreement, for once in their long, bloody history. Matters such as this were better handled without words. The Frenchman pulled a key from his pants, England retrieved a knife. Both objects glinted in the lamplight.

Within minutes all three of them had entered the cell. Prussia's clothing fell to the floor easily with a few calculated cuts from England's pocket knife. Russia helped lift him up and throw him against the nearest wall as the other men got into position. He was placed on France's lap, England took a seat on his own. Prussia was practically shaking from the effort it took him not to fight, to scream at them. Prussia was unsure if he could even speak, but the sentiment was still there.

England and France were upon him, groping, jerking, scratching, stabbing. His bare skin crawled as he felt it touch the skin of the others. They were speaking to him, but Prussia was too far detached to listen. Insults and orders, most likely. He deserved it. He was the filthy deserter of his own kin and needed to be punished. His sins were finally catching up with him. This mantra ceased his weak struggles, but did nothing about the soft shudders his body gave in response to the stimulation. He hated it. 

France remained behind him throughout the ordeal, perhaps unable to look his former friend in the eyes. The Englishman had no qualms about situating himself in front of Prussia, hate-filled green eyes boring into his soul. He occasionally lowered his head to bite Prussia's neck, imprinting his teeth along his jugular. Prussia shuddered at the realization that he didn't have his Iron Cross around his neck, but he was not surprised. They would take his only family, his dignity, his land, his army, and his body. Why not take the only thing that made him feel safe?

The two Allies stroked themselves to hardness. Prussia felt bile rise to the back of his throat. Russia watched the show, fully clothed, ten or so feet away from the action. He stared with childish awe and dangerous hunger. Prussia didn't know whether to be relieved that the Russian wasn't joining or terrified.

France forced himself in first, Prussia bit the insides of his cheeks hard enough to draw blood to avoid making noise. He was far from being a virgin, but his unwilling tightness had warranted a short waiting period before England became impatient and forced himself in alongside France. Heaps of blood ran down Prussia's legs as he was split in two. His chest heaved.

France and England paused again, panting. They began sloppily thrusted in and out of him. The pain was unbearable. Fire seared within him as reluctant arousal coiled in his abdomen with each slow, nearly sensual thrust. Skin slapped against skin, smearing blood every which way. The victors grunted animalistically as Prussia tried to put his mind anywhere else. He stared into the darkness above and pretended he wasn't there.

He conjured up memories of Germany inside of him, roughly and passionately thrusting as he cursed in their language. Ludwig's slick, neat hair ruffled and sweaty as the rest of him as they made sweet, quiet love in the barracks. Ludwig's stoic face caught in the thrill of orgasm. Ludwig breathing heavily beside him as their hearts slowed down, lulling one another to a satisfying post-sex sleep. Ludwig's lips against his own. Ludwig's big, working hands sliding up and down his back. Ludwig's tightness when he was in-

The images dissipated like lifting fog as French and English curses filled his ears, getting progressively louder with each thrust. Prussia whimpered at the loss of the memories, Germany seemed so far away, and reality seemed so much less appealing.

He closed his eyes tightly, to the point where he feared blood might start to fall from them, too. Losing the Great War had been worse than this, he reflected. There had been much more force, passionate rage, humiliation. He supposed he couldn't be the only tired nation at the end of this war. They could always come back if they decided they went too easy on him. Prussia remembers the look in France's eyes at the beginning of German occupation and realized they would probably return. He'd heard of the protocol being enforced years after losing a war. Such thoughts haunted him as his prostate was assulted.

Mercifully, England had finished, spitting on his face for good measure as he slipped out. The saliva landed just below his left eye and dripped down slowly, eventually reaching the corner of his mouth. Prussia knew better than to try and wipe it off. Soon France had followed. Out of the corner of his eyes, he watched them clothe themselves, slip the keys to Russia, then leave.

Prussia slumped against the wall uselessly, covered in blood, spit, and cum. Humiliation burned within him, knowing that some of the semen was his own. Minutes passed, his breathing slowed at the lack of physical exertion, despite the awful truth beginning to dawn on him.

He was naked, bloodied, and alone with Russia. Prussia jerked his head to the Soviet director, who smiled, twirling the set of keys France brought in happily, only five feet away. Russia waved enthusiastically as he closed the distance between them. He squatted, now at eye-level with the albino man. Prussia's heart sank on contact with the other's eyes. What just happened to him would look like a joke compared to what Russia would do to him. The two stared at each other in silence. With each passing second, Prussia thought he might go insane if he stared too long, as if he could catch Russia's crazy simply by eye contact.

"Privyet!" Russia greeted, as if he spotted a friend at the market and wanted to make pleasant conversation.

Prussia nodded weakly in acknowledgement, his throat suddenly dry as he caught sight of the massive tent in Russia's pants.

"You look very tired," Russia commented, "I do not understand why. France and England did all the work. Why are you tired? Is it because of the war?"

"Yes," Prussia whispered, wishing the crazy bastard would just get on with it.

"I understand," Russia replied serenely. "You and your brother fought so very hard. I wonder if he will taste like you," Russia said before leaning in and licking England's spit off of his cheek, transferring it to Prussia's mouth, then bringing his tongue to work up Prussia's neck, licking the marks left by England.

Prussia cringed, disgusted throughout the process, but the mentioning of Ludwig broke the dam. Without warning, he wept at the thought of the little boy he raised getting the exact same treatment as him. Memories of Holy Rome flitted through his mind disorderly. Coming home after a long and glorious battle for the kid to look at him like he had all the answers. Finding the crying baby naked in the woods of his land and knowing with brotherly intuition that the baby was his blood. Sleeping with the small child in his bed on stormy nights. Prussia's heart nearly burst, but he couldn't stop the thoughts.  
After the Great War, the Allies had allowed him to take Germany's punishment.  
He doubted they would give him such mercy this time.  
A horrid image of Russia grinning over a crying, helpless Holy Rome made Prussia sob harder as Russia kissed him. The larger nation's tongue tasted the blood on the inside of his cheeks and smiled into the kiss. Suddenly, Russia pulled back.

"I wonder if Germany will also be such a coward," Russia said, staring back into his eyes.

"Please," Prussia gasped, despite the flare of anger at the Russian. "Don't hurt him," he begged. "Don't let anyone hurt him" Prussia sobbed, aware of his pathetic stance, but more aware of the danger his brother was in. He had been a war machine all his life, strong as could be, never bending or breaking. He had been at the top of his game, reducing other's armies to dust, enduring the worst of interrogation methods without so much as a whimper. Yet here he was, begging and groveling at a madman to save his brother.

"Hm?" Russia stopped touching him, instead placing his face so close to the other's that Prussia could feel his cold breaths as he spoke. "He has killed millions with your help, yet you do not want to see him punished for his transgressions. I pity your ignorance," Russia said coldly.

"Even if I did help you, what could you give me in return?" Russia asked, placing his hands back onto Prussia's hips.

"My... body," He offered, with hesitance. He knew it probably wouldn't be enough for the bastard.

"Something I don't already have," Russia clarified, toying with Prussia's embarrassingly hard member.

"My land!" Prussia reached, clenching his fists.

"You must really care for Germany" Russia observed. Wheels turned within his mind, bringing the hunger back to his eyes. He caressed the other's nipples sensually as he imagined maring Prussia's pale skin with scars.

Prussia bit his lip to avoid responding with sarcasm.

"But how much do you care for Germany?" Russia asked, "What would you willingly give me for his protection?"

"Anything," Prussia responded instantly.

"Would you give me everything? Would you give me yourself?" Russia's hands wandered to Prussia's neck, stroking it softly.

"Y-yes!" Prussia cried, a small bit of hope entering him. He didn't care what Russia did with him, as long as Ludwig walked away unharmed after it was over.

"It is done," Russia said.

In that moment, Prussia's mind pieced itself together.

-

"Now we have emerged from one deadly struggle – a terrible foe has been cast on the ground and awaits our judgment and our mercy," Churchill says from the radio, jerking Gilbert from his thoughts violently. He contemplated his deal with Russia the night before. He had no regrets if it would keep Ludwig safe, but he was beginning to doubt the reliability of Russia's words. He promised to keep Ludwig safe, at the cost of Prussia's freedom, but he could have just as easily lied to him. Not wishing to dwell on it any longer, Prussia tunes back in to the radio that had been brought down this morning.

No more occupation. For the victors, that is. Prussia's entire body throbbed with pain. 

" Tomorrow our great Russian allies will also be celebrating victory and after that we must begin the task of rebuilding our hearth and homes, doing our utmost to make this country a land in which all have a chance, in which all have a duty, and we must turn ourselves to fulfill our duty to our own countrymen, and to our gallant allies of the United States who were so foully and treacherously attacked by Japan. We will go hand and hand with them. Even if it is a hard struggle we will not be the ones who will fail.”

Prussia vaguely hopes Japan does not find himself in a similar situation before tuning out again.

This is the beginning of the end for him, he realizes with resigned acquiescence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was an attempt. Whadya think? Did I get the characters right? Can I write angst? Can I write at all? Why or why not? Please review so the next chapter doesn't suck as much!  
> This is the product of me randomly deciding to spit out words late last night.   
> I hate making Russia the villian. I love him, I swear, I just wanted a reason to write angst and manifest my sadness into shareable sadness.  
> I based the titles on lines from Jason Webley songs.  
> (also if anyone cares, I'm still doing the kinkmeme fills thing, it's just going to take a while)


	2. Against The Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ludwig cuts his hand and the resulting wound reminds him of a better time. Outside, a visitor awaits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ayo it's set on the day the Berlin Airlift started but doesn't actually get to anything that happened during the Berlin Airlift because i suck and deserve death.  
> Depression can cause hallucinations. The hand line thing was a supersition I heard about as a kid and I looked at one site with 4 or 5 sentances about the hand lines and was like 'yep these are valid' before attempting a stupid metaphor that doesn't even really work.  
> also compulsive behavior is a thing that people do sometimes in response to stress/grief/idk.

JUNE 25, 1948 PART I

A nearly silent hiss slithered through the air of Germany’s house, hanging there for a few moments before dissipating into a nearly silent sigh of pain. Ludwig was a man of many mistakes as of late, and gutting his hand while washing the dishes was the least of them. While he watched the gash run red lines down his wrists on their journey to his elbow, he made no move to stop the blood at first. He couldn’t quite bring himself to move. He simply let the red flow, suddenly hyper-aware of each little nerve in his hand and the feeling of his beating heart. The heart responsible for allowing him to live, to exist, to feel, and to spill blood. A few thick globs of it jumped from his arm and onto the bleached white counter. Others chose to dive into the shimmering sink, right into the freshly cleaned silverware. Ludwig absently acknowledged that he’d have to clean them again. He didn’t mind. He’d cleaned the dishes upwards of ten times that week, what difference would once more make?

The cut ran diagonally, slicing right through what Ludwig once heard was called the ‘head line,’ although he didn’t remember who told him or when, much less if it was actually true. If so, he found it strangely poetic. He still recognized the place in the middle of his hand, the bar on which the little pitchfork of lines hung (the middle of which was called the ‘lifeline’), each of the lines seemed deeper and more exaggerated once bathed in the dark red of his blood. The middle line, the ‘head’ line, split right open by his own doing. Just as his insufferable loneliness, numbness, monotony, greed, and unfairness of it all were threatening to make him sever his ties with sanity. He’d thought about it before. How much easier it would be to suddenly be no one, knowing nothing at all. How selfish of him to want such a thing. Somewhere, God was laughing at him.

His hand throbbed horribly, staying still for a few moments more, when without warning, the marionette of a man that Ludwig Beilschmidt had become twitched to life before calmly walking to the drawer he kept the rags in. He picked out a white one, wetting it under the sink water before wrapping it around his hand, cringing both in pain and at the red stains shredding through the previously pure white cloth. Better than tracking his filthy blood throughout the house, he reasoned.

At some point he’d reached the first aid kit he’d been given at some point by someone. He wished they hadn’t done it, but nevertheless, here he stood in the bathroom of his home, opening the cabinet, reaching for the box. The kit opened with an unnecessarily loud pop, echoing in Ludwig’s ears. He held his bloodied arm over the eggshell white bowl of the bathroom sink, tainting yet another surface with his blood. Even as he cleaned the blood off his arm with the sink water, he saw the pale skin of his arm tinted red, barely noticeable, regardless whether or not it was actually there. Soon his free hand was in a cabinet again, this time reaching for the alcohol.

He made a special effort not to look at his reflection as he poured the clear liquid over his hand, his nerves screaming out to him in protest. He payed no heed to them, he merely continued pouring the liquid fire over his wound. If anything, he deserved the pain. Mechanically, he wrapped his hand in proper bandages and folded the bloodied rag, placing it under the sink cabinets, next to some of the particularly harsh chemicals.

Averting his eyes from his reflection, he left the bathroom in the hurried steps of a child running from a dark room. It embarrassed him, although no one could see or know what he was doing. Sometimes when he happened to glance into the mirror, he’d see things that weren’t there. If he dared to look into the mirror, he might see a version of himself that had no face and stood completely still, save for tilting its head in Ludwig’s direction no matter where he was or how far he ran. He might see a mangled version of him, broken limbs and gore splattering the walls, breathing in the air of the damned. Worst of all, he might see Gilbert. Gilbert, pale and thin, hanging from the ceiling and smiling down at him, swaying as his body twitched horribly at the end of the rope. Afterwards, he would become still, the sway of the noose almost unnoticeable. But he would still stare at Ludwig, red ruby eyes still wide and his mouth still smiling. Ludwig wouldn’t be able to run from it all forever, but he’d be damned if he didn’t try.

Returning to the filth of the counter and sink, Ludwig’s gaze happened to fall downward, as it usually did these days. He focused on his bandaged hand for just a moment. It struck him with a sense of nostalgia strong enough to send bittersweet tears to his eyes. The memory hit him in waves, becoming more painful by the second.

\------------------

Holy Rome whimpered softly, trying to stifle tears at the sight of his newest injury. A nasty looking scrape cut down the length of his forearm. It wasn’t spewing blood as he feared it might, but the wound still burned terribly. He gingerly pressed his fingers to it, hissing at the resulting pain that raged through his skin. Ludwig’s childishly innocent bright blue eyes brimmed with tears threatening to fall. He blinked rapidly in an attempt to banish them, big kids didn’t cry and he was a big kid, Gilbert said so!

Mere seconds ago, he’d been racing through the forest around the estate as fast as he could. The greenery whizzed by him, the wind hitting his smiling face as he sprinted. He knew the wilderness better than any human ever could, dodging low hanging branches and leaping over tree roots in his pursuit to the East.

He’d heard the clomping of horse hooves off in the distance, coming closer, to the easternmost point of the place he called home.They were faint, like the rustling of leaves at the other end of the woods, but Holy Rome knew that sound just as well as he knew his land. He’d nearly been raised on that noise. Gilbert loved to ride, and when he could, the boy loved to ride with him. Especially because Gilbert was fond of buying big, fast, arrogant horses that stomped the ground with a certain thunk as they walked, letting the listening world know that they were still kicking. That sound was power and fear and greatness, and no matter how ludicrous it sounded, Ludwig knew it when he heard it. Instantly his chest filled with more hope than he knew it should have. Very few people had business bringing horses into the stables of the estate. Only messengers (who were all accounted for when Holy Rome left the castle), higher up servants (who weren’t supposed to return until the afternoon), Ludwig himself, and Gilbert.

Holy Rome heard that Prussia should be returning within the next few weeks, but at the time, it seemed too good to be true. Little Ludwig had almost begun to worry this ‘war’ was a permanent state of being. He yearned deeply to see his brother again, Gilbert’s absence always left him with a feeling he didn’t know the words to describe. It was like pain, but lonely.

Naturally, when he heard the only true indicator of his big brother’s possible return, Holy Rome was excited. Exhilarated, even. He dropped the sticks he was playing with and ran to the direction of the noise. The boy ran faster than he ever thought he could, heart speeding with excitement as he pushed himself to his physical limits. With each pounding step he took, he became more sure of Gilbert’s presence.

Soon he was nearing the edge of the forest, almost close enough to spot a figure on a steed, but still too far away to know exactly who it was. He squinted at the figure, trying to make out anything definitive, just to be sure, his hair, his uniform, his horse, his -

Holy Rome had been jerked out of his thoughts violently as he tripped over a gnarled root, suddenly airborne. His sight flitted away, replaced by the ground rushing by beneath him. He had no time to think as he fell. Moments ago, he’d been running to see his brother. Now he was on the ground, trying not to cry at the ache in his forearm.

After inspecting the wound, his original goal struck him, seemingly with more fire and passion than before. Soon he was up again. He continued his forward sprint, his pain conveniently dulled at the prospect of being in Gilbert’s arms again. The older nation tended to have that effect on him. He would see him soon.

He watched his brother dismount the the horse in front of the stable. Holy Rome forced himself to run faster, pushing himself farther. His legs felt as though they were on fire. Stopping was not an option. He had to catch Prussia before he actually entered the stables. In his childish mind there was suddenly no worse fate than to let Gilbert leave his sight, a great and dark fear told him that if he let his brother disappear behind the big wooden door, he would never see him again. His sprint became more frantic than exhilarated, his throat aching dryly, pain sparking within his chest , his feet rotting with the weight of the world. Holy Rome’s blue eyes suddenly filled with tears.

As the older country’s hand grasped the handle the door, Holy Rome was about a hundred yards away, the fear thrived deeply within him. It felt as though his heart would stop and the burning throughout his body would suddenly freeze. He couldn’t let his brother leave him again. All of his emotions fired up inside of him, battling for dominance, propelling him forward.

“Brother, Brother!” Holy Rome cried in his hoarse little voice, feeling as though he was throwing darts in the dark, completely unsure if any would actually hit their target.

The response from Gilbert was barely noticeable at first. His grip on the cool metal of the door loosed and his white eyebrows furrowed in uncertainty for a few milliseconds. He developed a certain mistrust for his ears when the thing they registered for him was too good to be true.The horse by his side, shiny and black, stared elsewhere with its big omnipotent eyes.

Holy Rome called again, louder, or at least as loud as he possibly could with the pain in his throat and the emotional tightening of his chest. Prussia turned his head to see the blur of his little blond brother rushing to him, clad in black, no more than fifty feet away. Immediately, he knelt down to the boy’s height and spread his arms, premature warmth kindling in his chest. It had been far too long.

The boy smacked into his chest, wrapping his short arms around Gilbert’s midsection as if to keep him in place. The rest of Holy Rome’s body went limp, finished with exerting effort. They held each other for a minute, an hour, a day, a year, an eternity, both boys breathing heavily and neither willing to let go. The emotions Holy Rome had been holding in since the day Gilbert left for war. The dam he’d built out of time, worry, and denial was bursting. Little Ludwig’s body was wracked with sobs, so much so that breathing seemed difficult. He could feel himself becoming blue in the face, but he wasn’t quite sure if he had it in him to care.

Regardless of whether or not Holy Rome cared if he passed out, Prussia did. The horse huffed indignantly behind them, obviously bored by such a show of emotions, but neither could hear it.

“Alright, kid...Time to calm down…Breathe. I’m here,” Prussia said softly in the tone he reserved solely for the little nation. As he finally pulled back, his little brother’s tear-filled eyes widened in surprise. Gilbert had been crying as well.

“I missed you,” Holy Rome huffed in defense, still holding his brother’s hands tightly.

Gilbert chuckled good naturedly, “Of course you did! I’d miss the awesome me too! Honestly, how did you even survive without me?”

Young Ludwig laughed at the older boy’s antics, despite his internal eye-rolling. 

“And I missed you too, kid,” Gilbert added softly, more seriously as he stared into the cute round face of his little brother. His red eyes trailed downward, admiring the perfect and innocent being God had bestowed upon him. He didn’t deserve the little guy. The child was a gift, a perfect gift, crafted delicately and carefully, then wrapped up with a nice little bow and sent to Prussia by mistake. Although he felt as though he didn’t deserve the boy, he’d be damned if he was going to give him back to the intended recipient. He would protect the little boy with everything he had, better than anyone else ever could. He had to give him that, at least.

Gilbert’s eyes caught the pinkish red streaks down Holy Rome’s arm. His hand shot out to pull Ludwig’s hand upwards, giving him a better view of the affected area. He was careful not to touch any particularly angry looking spots as he carefully stroked his free hand down the boy’s arm.

Gilbert whistled, “What happened here?” Holy Rome became bashful, blushing and staring down at his feet. Like someone who'd done something particulary embarassing. Gilbert half-expected him to admit to still sleeping with a teddy bear or some equally cute future blackmail material.

“I-I wanted to see you,” he explained, “I was running really fast and-and, I fell.”

Gilbert briefly thought his heart would burst from the absolute cuteness of it all. The boy's blushing face, his wide, pleading eyes, the hands behind his back wrigging worriedly. The way his weight shifted from foot to foot as if there was something the boy wanted to tell him but couldn't quite find the words for it. Suddenly he lunged for the child, wrapping his arms around the kid and squeezing in affection.

“Alright, kiddo,” he picked up Holy Rome and slung his little body over his shoulder. “Let’s get you patched up.”

\----------------------------

Gilbert, Germany’s mind sighed. His wound reminded him of Gilbert.

Of course it would - almost everything did, but something about this specific memory stuck a painful chord within him. It wasn’t often Germany remembered his childhood at all, much less with such vivid recollection. He tried his best to hold onto the feelings; the warmth, the wholesomeness, the innocence and love of it all. He felt chest constricting as his futile attempts to hold on were overridden by the all-encompassing loneliness he’d come to know quite well over the years.

Somewhere between shedding tears and choking down the bitter bile of complete numbness, a curt sound cut through the air of his house, too out of place to be the familiar hum of the radio he forgot the existance of until it went silent. 

The knock at the door hadn't unsettled him at first. It merely served to pull him out of his thoughts for the moment, a simple distraction. He'd been expecting it today after all, he'd gotten somewhat used to someone coming by and dropping off essential supplies without showing their face. Food, water, soap, and the occasional useful trinket. A few months ago (or maybe a year, it was becoming hard to tell) he pulled a little portable radio out of the box. Ludwig tuned into news, taking in the bits in pieces he could tolerate. Most of it made him more worried, to the point where it consumed his every waking thought. He mostly kept it on because the voices it broadcasted were human, and he had been made quite lonely by the droning silence that had ruled before. He avoided the news most nights, though it filled him with guilt.

His concerns began when the knock came again, more insistent this time, as if the person on the other side expected to be let in. He hadn't really spoken to a single soul since the Allies took him to his home and held threats of torturing Gilbert over his head to keep him there. As the knocking kept on, Ludwig took a deep breath and quickly wrapped up his hand before cautiously arriving at the knob, slowly beginning to turn it. He did it all without thinking, and thus had no reason to dwell on the fact that every one of the Allies probably had the key to his home and the power to let themselves in whenever they wanted. The door fully opened, revealing more daylight than he had seen in forever (despite the moody overcast weather).  
He squinted at the light at first, waiting a moment for his eyes to adjust so he could behold the sight of his visitor. Ludwig tried not to believe them when his eyes told him that America stood at his door with a box at his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay this was much worse than I intended it to be but i'm lazy and I wanted to put something out so here it is. I got real lazy towards the end. Scratch that, I was lazy in the beginnig. I was lazy during the whole thing. I'm lazy. I'm not going through and editing it properly, so I guess this is more of a casual thing I'm writing??? Idk. I just wanted to say something so when I look back at this and go 'wow that sucked' I can tell myself it was just practice. Also the title is another Jason Webley song (it's really good and you might enjoy listening to it)  
> ALTERNATE TITLE: 149 redundant descriptions of sadness and 4 attempts at knowing what good memories feel like.  
> How was it? How could I have improved it? Anything I got wrong factwise/ in the portrayal of? Was anybody IC this time?


	3. Down to the River

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America arrives at Germany's with an offer he can't refuse. Comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is kind of screwy as a history fic because i think i messed up (i'm not sure). The Marshall plan went into effect June 3rd, 1948. The Berlin Airlift was June 25th. I need a betareader lol. Or some kind of factchecker. Somebody to tell me when I'm screwing up and how to fix this because honestly I can't tell most of the time. Any takers? I think I’m bad at fact to fanfic conversion. It all feels weird. 
> 
> I hope this doesn't feel as rushed as it was. I just really wanted to write something and get it out there so I would get motivated to write the next thing. I need to give myself a deadline or something lmao.

JUNE 25, 1948 PART II

America stood outside Germany’s door in nearly equal shock. He hadn’t fully expected an answer. In fact, he wasn’t ready for one at all. God, Alfred felt stupid. Out of all the nations on Earth, he knew he’d be at the bottom of the list of people Germany would want to speak to at a time like this. How the hell were you supposed to confront someone who’d lost everything when you helped invoke that loss? He looked to the crate at his feet and hoped it would fix this somehow.

Ludwig would be justified in doubting his true intentions, of course. It would be sensible for him to think Alfred had stopped by to rape him, for God’s sake. He probably heard about what happened to Prussia. He might have even felt it, for all Alfred knew. America tried to shy away from thoughts of what exactly Germany might be feeling with not only his capital, but his land in the hands of his enemies.

America still distinctly remembers the fiery pain in his chest when his capital was set ablaze in 1814. Like being burned alive from the inside out, he had waited in agony for the pain to stop. Something must’ve heeded his prayers, as less than a day later a monstrous storm rolled through the city. It put the fires out, but America’s very core felt constricted until the second his capital was where it belonged, in the hands of his people. He wondered if that kind of pain was universal.

At the sight of Germany’s face, America began to regret his decision to speak to him. Looking at Germany sent a ripple of guilt through him that he didn’t know what to do with. Sweat matted Ludwig’s disheveled blond hair to his head. Perhaps worst of all, his eyes held a familiar jaded quality that Alfred recognized on soldiers during war. Although he hadn’t spent much time pondering Germany’s complexion until now, he was fairly sure the man was much paler than he was supposed to be. Even with their limited contact, America could tell the difference in Germany’s figure. Instead of standing tall, seemingly ready for anything that would come, his shoulders sagged with the weight of the world.

The next thing that caught America off guard was the smell. Just as his mind processed the image of a man broken beyond his own empathy, his attempt at a neutral face nearly scrunched its nose up in disgust. The smell coming from the man at the door was a weird, musty stench radiating off of Ludwig himself. Strangely, the smell from the inside of the house was the industrial stench of bleach and window cleaner.

Ludwig felt like he’d arrived at the site of a nightmare about to take place. As to what America was doing at his doorstep, he could make an educated guess. It was finally going to happen. He supposed he deserved whatever came to him. He faintly wondered why they’d waited so long.

“What do you want?” He rasped, shocked at the way his neglected vocal chords scraped over his words.

America tried to prepare for the reaction to his next words. In Germany’s position, he wouldn’t believe it either.

“I’m just here to talk,” America tried to look Germany in the eyes as he said this, but the other was squinting too hard at the light outside. He knew the other wasn’t buying it the moment it left his mouth. He tried some more. “Honestly, I am. You’ve been listening to the radio, right? You know what’s going on?”

Ludwig felt humiliation at this but he said nothing and stepped aside to let America in. America took the wordlessness as either exhaustion or silent outrage or maybe a bit of both. Either way, he heaved the box up without so much as a sound and walked into the other country’s house as quietly as he could. He set the thing down on the floor by Germany’s couch.

The door fell closed behind him. Ludwig was grateful that the burning light no longer made his mind swim and his eyes strain, if nothing else.

Germany followed America to his couch, stopping just outside of an arm’s length away from him. America stood staring at him, equally unaware of what he should do.

Rebuilding the damage of the war was going to be a difficult task. America knew it to be fact that he wouldn’t be able to do it alone, not without the cooperation of his allies and former enemies alike. The former enemies would have a hard time trusting him, and rightfully so. Germany was a good place to start, he hoped.

He got used to the stench of the home soon enough. There were more pressing matters at hand. America could not shake the restless sinking feeling in his soul that the work would be for nothing. That the world would fall right back into the condition of constant violence. That this was merely a practice of bandaging wounded dogs so they could stand back up and bite into each other again. America hoped (in vain perhaps) that it was not for nothing.

They stared at each other uncertainly. Surprisingly, Ludwig spoke first.

“What are you really here for, America?” It came out as a half-whispered, frustrated sigh.

“I already told you,” He tried to insist, “I’m here to help y-”

“No you’re not,” Germany growled with more spirit than he thought he had left in him. “You can’t be.” It pissed him off, whatever America was doing, mostly because Germany could not be sure exactly what it was. Would the other country really have the audacity to lie and gain his trust when he could just take what he wanted without issue?

America sighed in exasperation. He fully expected this response, but it still frustrated him. To prove a point, he knelt down beside the crate and pulled out what looked like a miniature crow bar out of his pants pockets. It cracked open quietly, but that was the only sound in the house.

“Brought drinks and nothing else, does that sound nefarious enough to you?” Alfred ignored the suspicious squint his words earned. Instead, he focused on the way he thought Ludwig perked up for a fraction of a second when he recognized the necks of beer bottles peaking out from the crate.

Germany didn’t want to believe it. Not for a second. It seemed too good to be true, therefore it must’ve been so.

America proceeded to seat himself unceremoniously down on Germany’s couch, dragging the opened crate out in front of him and taking hold of one of the bottles.

Ludwig blanched when he realized the band on the label was one he knew. He wallowed in his shock for a good few seconds. He contemplated how far America would go for a sick joke like this.

The next time he looked at America, he was drinking heartily. With his eyes clenched shut and his hands balled into fists as he drank, America somehow managed to look very young and very old at the same time. He took in alcohol with need that could only be acquired after many years of combat. He did not look like a soldier.

Eventually America took the mouth of the bottle away from his. His hands held the thing out for Germany to take.

“It’s my peace offering,” he said. “Take it. You need some.”

Germany did. There was no other option. He sat down next to America and drank. Artificial heat flowed through his body and filled him with longing for the times he sat at the bars with Prussia. His chest constricted tightly. Soon it would become hard to breathe. He pushed the thoughts away and handed the liquor back to America with a hint of hesitance.

“It’s been too long since I had a drink myself,” America confessed solemnly after taking in more. A silence descended upon them. They waited until they were buzzed enough to speak.

“Your boss asked you to do this?” Germany finally asked.

“Sorta,” America snorted. “He told me to spread the word ‘respectfully and with cultural tact.’ Too bad I won’t do either of those things.”

The beer was passed between the two. Neither of them got drunk. Painfully warm memories swarmed Ludwig’s mind. Prussia’s drunken smile burned itself onto the backs of his eyelids. America tried to figure out what to say and how to say it and silently wished he were someone else.

“Good news first,” America decided loudly, causing Germany to snap his eyes open and look to him with weak irritation. Good news at a time like this seemed like a joke “You’re getting the third largest cut of the European Recovery Program. Food, fuel, machinery, and money. Rebuild and recover and shit. Lift some trade barriers and build industry for the West. Just don’t be a commie or go to war again,” he finished, staring out into nothing.

Germany said nothing. His dread choked out the words. The words ‘for the West’ rang out in his mind. He missed his brother. He bit the inside of his cheek and the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. The alcohol stung the wound. He kept drinking.

“Now for the rest of it,” America grabbed another bottle from the crate and took a swig, setting the empty one on the floor by his feet. “Russia won’t let us at any of them in the East. He’s already against the Marshall Plan, if I take it any further he’s liable to start shooting real fire. They want more land, too. Just as of today they were trying to block off Berlin. It’s not like we can challenge that militarily, now we just have to fly supplies over and wait.”

Germany had suspicions about his brother’s fate since he could think straight. The theory that haunted him most was inching itself into his reality. He had received a light sentence because his brother was out getting tortured for the both of them. By Russia. Ludwig would’ve shuddered if he weren’t so damned numb. Not numb enough to keep the water out of his eyes.

America noticed. He let Ludwig finish off the rest of the drink as a silence returned to them. It was more comfortable than the last. Germany didn’t want to know more and America was done talking about it. They kept drinking.

They did get drunk eventually. It was not a fun kind of drunk. It was the dark drunkenness of lonely nights following loss. They shared it together. Perhaps minutes, maybe hours of this ensued. America started talking again, Ludwig hardly remembered what he said. Looking back, it seemed to be mostly nonsense. Little snippets of the past to fill the silence. Ludwig couldn’t find himself to be annoyed by them. He followed them to escape his own thoughts.

“I used to drink moonshine by the river in Tennessee. Back when it was uh … was un- legal. Yeah. Fuckn’ Probation. Bein’ sober should be un-legal. They found a body in ‘ere once. Goddamn drunkard got himself drowned. He coulda’ been me! ‘S alone just like I was. Still am mostly. Said he did it at night on Christmas. Poor bastard. He coulda’ been me. His wife died the year before… some damn disease or other. It got his kids too. I didn’t know him…”

He went on with one story after the other in his drunken recollection. Germany would not yet admit that it was entertaining. It was a nice distraction. He never interrupted. The crate was half empty.

America stood to leave at some point when the dark of night fell and the roar of planes sounded overhead. Germany stopped him quietly through his haze. Or maybe he did not. He did not remember, and Alfred never clarified in the future.

“Don’t leave,” he mumbled in a next to inaudible voice. It was suddenly imperative that the other stayed. Maybe he needed the sound of another voice, something to focus on so he couldn’t let the demons in. The thought of being alone again destroyed him at the moment. Ludwig had always been a clingy drunk.

Alfred might’ve heard him. He turned around to look at Ludwig, maybe to ask if he’d heard what he thought he did. He did not. He gave him a sloppy smile and tried to nod his head.

“Yessir,” Alfred mumbled in return, stumbling back to the couch. He passed out on the opposite end of the couch. Ludwig did likewise. He didn’t have nightmares that night.

Germany woke up alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Down to the River by Brown bird is a song about a man who is rejected by Satan and God alike, he then discovers that his soul belongs to his wife. Also the next part is going to be about Prussia. Anybody wanna beta for it? I must collect willing souls for judgement of my trash. Also there's this other thing that a friend and I have been working on that requires souls as well. 
> 
> Anyway, how was this chapter?


	4. The Messenger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prussia wakes up in Russia's care, disoriented and in pain. His day is spent in an angry haze where he tries to forget who and where he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> October 7th, 1949 - the communist German Democratic Republic is formed. March 1949 - Soviet mass deportation from the Baltic States.
> 
> HUGE thank you to Aquaria Moon for beta-ing this! Otherwise it would've been shorter, less interesting, and full of gramatical/spelling errors. I honestly think this is the best chapter so far! Also I figured out how to italicize things - a feature I plan to use and abuse in the future. I think the dialogue was kind of stilted and weird, but that might just be me. 
> 
> Anyway, Merry Christmas -

OCTOBER 7, 1949

The first thing Prussia felt upon waking up was weight pressing down on his chest. The heavy weight of a nightmare choking the breath out of him before he knew he could breathe. His heart knocked against his unmoving lungs and his hollow ribs loudly. It became the only thing he heard as it pounded a sickening drum beat in his head. He tried to open his eyes only to find them forcefully clenched shut. Moving proved equally fruitless.

Only two things existed in this nightmare world. They were the oppressing weight of what Prussia deduced to be the hand of God pushing down hard on his whole body, and the hopelessly insistent beating of his own heart. These two things could happen at the same time forever, he knew. Gilbert fought hard for the control over his limbs, but his eyes moved first.

They snapped open wide to see condemnation itself, in the form of a corpse. A corpse with bright blue eyes turned white with death and messy, torrid blond hair. A corpse with a face and a name and a place deep in Gilbert’s soul. A corpse with the weight of all Gilbert’s mistakes, here to hold him down for all eternity while the worthless heart of Prussia taunted him with life he shouldn’t have.

He would cry if the tears came, but they never did. He could no longer close his eyes, no matter how terribly he wanted to. Gilbert no longer knew what he would do if he could move. A thought came to him, the only one he managed in that state. Hell is cold, dead, and godless. He had been cast into Hell for his sins. His cowardice. His inability to protect the one thing that fucking mattered-

The corpse grabbed his forearm. It felt like a web of ice so cold that it burned stretching over his skin. The moment the hand made contact, Gilbert could breathe again. The weight disappeared. Prussia’s eyes slammed shut. The hand was still there. He reopened them to find the corpse gone, dissipating like the rest of his hellish nightmare.

When his red eyes are staring into a turbulent sea of dark violet does he began to realize where he is.Not much has changed, he is still in a hell. Only this hell was made of frozen snow and alive with screaming winds and lost souls. This hell had a God, and Prussia stared right into his eyes. He felt the anger boil up within him the longer he held his gaze.

“Fucker,” Gilbert cursed at him as soon as the muscles in his mouth could move to form words.

“Oh good!” Russia exclaimed happily. He dug his icy nails far into Prussia’s skin. Prussia considered that he should have been glad to feel anything at all. “I worried about you,” Russia continued, “You are very lazy, you know. To be napping for so long. How do you feel?” He asked in mock concern.

“Fuck you!” Gilbert reiterated, determined to win any small victory against Ivan. He may have agreed to come here, but he had no intentions of being pleasant and no tact to pretend so.

“I see you are faring well then, as ungrateful as you are,” he replied with a smile that could crush the resolve of ordinary men. Prussia glimpsed down and saw his boiling blood peeking out from the skin under Russia’s hand. “But you must miss your brother dearly. Is that right?”

Gilbert felt bile rise in the pits of his stomach. The only nerve Russia could have possible struck. For the first time, he realized he was naked with a disgusted chill. Prussia struggled not to falter as he recalled those white dead eyes boring into his soul. Before he can regain his composure and call Ivan a son of a bitch, the man speaks.

“Good,” Ivan plucks his red-tipped nails out of Gilbert’s arm. “Think about that. I will be back for you later. There will be work for you to do soon. It would be a shame for you to be put to sleep again.”

Gilbert couldn’t find the words to say by the time Russia stood to leave. His anger only burned hotter, followed by a sickening slimy feeling of dread.

“There are clothes in the top drawers. You will dress nicely for dinner or I will dress you myself,” Russia passed the last threat before turning away. He locked the door behind him.

Stubbornly, and for his own good, Gilbert distracted himself. He pulled himself up and swung his feet over the bed. Moving was much more painful than he had anticipated. As much good as it did for diverting his attention, he decided to familiarize himself with the room around him instead.

The bed, which creaked loudly when he moved an inch on it, was situated in the leftmost corner. On the same side as the slim locked door in front of him, presumably leading to a hallway. Prussia thought he heard footsteps and voices from beyond the wall, but he could not be sure of what senses he could trust after what he saw upon waking up. Occasionally he heard soft bustling from within the walls, and felt dull contentment at the prospect of rats living in Russia’s house. Maybe they’d chew the barriers down for him.

Dim whitish light came in from a vent sized window in the top right corner of the room. The weak light still make his eyes ache, he stared anyway. From where he sat, he could only see an ivory clouded sky. It’s the first sense of time he gets in Russia’s house. Absently, he wondered when winter would strike down.

His wonder turned to worry that the ice would rise above the tallest walls and bury him alive, so he turned his attention back to the room. The longer he looked, the more convinced he became it was once a storage room. Prussia passed the time by counting the tiles on the ceiling, the cobwebs in the corners, the faults in the wooden floorboards. He whispered the numbers to himself. Counting the seconds, the minutes, the hours, the years. Gilbert heard the blood against his ears in every silence. He had no wish to hear his laughing heartbeat again. It had taunted him enough.

Gilbert hated the way he jumped when the door eventually snapped open with Russia behind it. He tried not to voice his surprise when he glanced at the vent window to see that darkness had fallen.

“Get dressed,” Russia orders him from the door. “I will be waiting for you,” he added before getting out of sight again. It happened fast enough to not have happened at all, but Prussia could have dry-heaved at the thought of having that damned man’s hands all over him again.

Gilbert was astonished at the amount of effort standing seemed to take. He had never felt so weak in his life. The remains of his chewed, bloodied nails (When had he done that?) left intentions on the old wood of the empty nightstand when he pressed down on it for support. Dull pain rolled throughout his legs when he finally stood up, his vision swimming in the darkness of nausea. He gritted his teeth and stumbled forward.

By some hate-fueled miracle, he eventually got the clothes on. They were uncomfortably baggy, and marked the first time Prussia noticed that he had lost a substantial amount of weight. He could have never imagined such a simple task to be such a fucking struggle. He used to be an empire, untouchable. He used to come home from wars victoriously, greeted by -

Gilbert pushed the thought far back into his mind before it could finish and opens the door to the hallway. He will not cry in front of Russia.

“I see you are still weak,” Ivan remarks, standing just in front of him with that stupid grin plastering his face. “I could carry you if you will not walk.”

Prussia is out of the energy to tell him to fuck off with the enthusiasm that he would like, so he stayed silent and stood as tall as the pain shooting down his spine let him. Refusing to let himself be dragged along, he limped a foot or so behind Russia as they passed countless miles of mansion. The estate was a maze that never ended, and Gilbert hated that he was forced to follow Ivan’s lead for the time being. _Not for long,_ he pledged silently. _Not forever._ It almost sounded like a prayer.

Gilbert let his eyes flit over the walls suspiciously. Covered in dark red paint and the occasional Russian artwork hung proudly inside of a golden frame. Each door they passed was closed and most likely locked with little to no indication of what lay behind them. Prussia felt dizzy by the time they arrived in the dining room.

Although he didn’t want to admit it, the smell wafting in from the kitchen was pleasant. It made his stomach send painful spasms through his midsection, so he scrunched his nose up in disgust anyway.

Two boys finished setting up the table in a dark velvety cloth, setting down white china and silverware with careful hands. The shorter of the two wore red and gold. His eyes darted around the room and never dared to focus in Russia’s direction for too long. A mere child-servant. The other boy wore dark blue and kept glancing up at them wearily through his glasses.

Gilbert took a few steps forward and spawned a dizzying blackness that nearly made him fall. His body, although that of a country, struggled to overcome the effects of his coma-sleep. It was something political, he knew. He felt the pain and disoriented fog in a manner deeper than mortal pain. Something important that Russia would not tell him, not that Prussia was in any mood to ask. He didn’t want to think about how long he’d been gone, it reminded him of what he left behind.

Instead, he focused on the six other souls taking their seats at the table. He felt even more sickened when he recognized the two he’d originally mistaken for human servant boys as fellow countries. A third came in and set a Russian dish in front of Ivan first. Prussia recalled him to be Lithuania. He deduced the other boys to be the rest of the Baltics.

Upon further inspection, one of them - the short one who he later learned was named Latvia - wore a black and purple bruise necklace in a ring above his collarbone. Nations could heal injuries like that in a matter of hours unless they were politically related or inflicted often enough. The image of a deranged Russia throttling someone half his size didn’t leave Prussia’s mind until late that night.

Lithuania seemed to own his share of marks as well. Gilbert only barely caught a glimpse of the mangled skin under the green sleeves of his shirt, but he knew by the way Toris winced when his arm brushed against the table that they existed. In his face, Prussia saw worry that should not have been directed at him.

Estonia’s face, on the other hand, held a hate in it that Gilbert might have recognized on his own face. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in years, subduing the fire in his eyes to mere embers. Prussia couldn’t see any injuries on him, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. He considered the possibility of roadmaps being carved into the skin of his back.

Gilbert tried not to wonder if Russia had already reduced him to a similar state.

Belarus and Ukraine arrived at the table not long after the last dish was laid out. They sat closest to Russia, speaking to him pleasantly enough and occasionally smiling strangely at him. Naturally, Russia’s sisters were not like his servants. They didn’t flinch when he raised his hands towards them, and listened to him politely instead of obediently when he introduced them to the ‘guest.’ He didn’t miss how they ate in a way that reminded him of the swift, careful conduct of people who had close memories of being starved.

The tense atmosphere mostly applied to the servant’s half of the table, it appeared. The Baltics would stare at Russia when he spoke, making no real effort to contribute unless it was mandatory. Prussia ate with pure hunger, he never would’ve admitted the Russian slop was actually good. The cold water sliced his insides as it went down, satisfying even though it hurt.

Gilbert patiently waited for Russia or his company to say something useful. He found no such luck. Russia merely mentioned that he was being kept here because of his ties with the west, which Prussia could’ve figured out himself. Ivan obviously wanted better control of those least willing to stay by his side. Otherwise, Ivan and his sisters made worthless small talk and exchanged smiles that didn’t quite meet their eyes.

Prussia listened, taking in every useless word. Most of it wasn’t important enough to register, but listening was all he could do to distract himself from the fact that he already missed long warm nights drinking with his only family.

Years might’ve passed like this, until Gilbert heard something that caught his attention. Only half the words rang out in his mind, belatedly he realized they were talking about him. Bleak interest creeped alongside him as he focused on their half of the conversation.

“... will be much better for the German Democratic Republic to be put to work soon, don’t you agree?” One of the feminine voices insisted, met with agreement from Russia.

_What the hell?_

Only when the three Baltics turned to face him did he realize he’d uttered his question aloud. Glancing at them, faces full alarm, Gilbert gathered that he was meant to take some sort of warning from them. He looked to Russia and his sisters. They had not heard him.

“But for strength,” Ukraine countered lightly, “He needs time to recover. He could injure himself otherwise.”

Russia seemed to consider this, frowning thoughtfully, “He is another mouth to feed. The GDR should expect to pull weight, after all -”

“The GDR?” Prussia blurted out, much louder than he had anticipated. Each pair of eyes turned and bored into him like he was foaming at the mouth and seizing on the floor. He couldn’t tell if he should feel humiliated, embarrassed, or enraged.

Russia laughed a little, it was an eerily normal sound. It disturbed him, how a madman like him could sound normal when he laughed.

“That would be you, yes,” Russia said condescendingly. A tense, tangible silence had fallen over the room, heavy enough to crush steel resistance.

“Since when?” Prussia challenged, his tone stayed unbending but something in his eyes faltered. He didn’t want to admit it, but Russia knew more than him, and Russia’s best interests would include keeping him in the dark.

“Since you lost,” Russia explained as though he were going through the rules of a simple board game. “You didn’t have a name then, though. Consider yourself lucky.”

Before Prussia could open his mouth to argue that a meaningless string of letters was not a name and anyone claiming to be lucky in Russia’s house was off their fucking rocker, Russia’s words sunk in. The phrase hit him worse than he expected, he tried his hardest not to look the situation in the face since he woke up that morning, and here Russia was, managing to belittle him without even trying. It left him speechless, now his mouth was too dry to get anything out.

Gilbert patiently waited for Russia or his company to say something useful. He found no such luck. Russia merely mentioned that he was being kept here because of his ties with the west, which Prussia could’ve figured out himself. Ivan obviously wanted better control of those least willing to stay by his side. Otherwise, Ivan and his sisters made worthless small talk and exchanged smiles that didn’t quite meet their eyes.

Eventually Russia called upon Lithuania. He told him to give the German Democratic Republic a short tour and to instruct him. The other two cleared the table and started to wash the dishes. Russia’s sisters left to the guest room, and Russia disappeared into the halls of his own house.

As soon as Lithuania stood close enough and Russia was out of sight for the time being, Prussia asked him the question. He wasn’t sure if he could expect an answer.

“What’s today?” His voice scraped out the words, and it sounded much more desperate than he would’ve liked.

Lithuania hesitated, as if he knew the answer would upset him. “October 7th,” he finally murmured.

“Of what?” Prussia spat, irritated yet dreading the answer still. The fact that Toris stalled was not a good sign.

“1949,” he replied gravely. It could have been a death sentence. “I’ll tell you whatever I can,” he quickly followed. “Just let me do my job first.”

“No! You fucking dog!” That couldn’t be right. Even if his physical body died, it would’ve been back much sooner. He’d never heard of this, not even after losing a war. “If you won’t sit here and tell me how the hell -”

“I can’t tell you anything until we get to where we’re supposed to be.” Lithuania turned around and started to walk away. Gilbert really wanted to hit him. Prussia followed reluctantly, biting his tongue hard enough for the taste of iron hate to fill his mouth. It was all he could do not to scream at him.

Rage started to climb from the pits of his lungs and wrap itself around his neck like a scarf made of molten metal. Injustice at being treated like a child, supposedly after years in a comatose state, under Russia’s care nonetheless. He hardly saw where Toris lead him, his feet moved robotically.

He should have started caring when they started down a set of rotting wooden stairs. Instead, he remained lost in his anger and confusion. The more he thought about it, the stranger it seemed. It somewhat explained his pain, and maybe even a bit of his disorientation, but he’d never heard of a nation going out for that long. Behind his immediate emotions, it scared him.

At the bottom of the stairs, grayish white paint peeled off the walls. Brown mold peaked out of the places where the wall met the floor. The room seemed awfully spacious and primarily empty, save for a few boxes without labels strewn about. The corners of the room weren’t touched by light. The dinginess of the place - the smell, most off all - caught Prussia off guard. This was strange for a room in Russia’s house, where he had all the time and servants to fix things for him.

Irritation etched into his tone, Prussia spoke first.

“Now would you _please_ explain to me what the fuck is going on?”

“Russia wants you to find the rats and kill them, as well as fix this place and work outside in the gardens. He’ll have you up early tomorrow morning to show you,” Toris responded blankly, unfazed.

“You know damn well that’s not what I meant,” Gilbert spat. “Tell me about -”

“I can’t,” he stressed. “I don’t know how or why you were dormant for so long, just that Russia took care of you, which you probably knew already. I don’t know a thing about the west that you don’t, they don’t let that kind of stuff get to us here. I’m sorry,” he finished sternly, while still trying to be polite.

Prussia’s irritation was choked out momentarily. Disgust took its place. “... ‘Took care of me’? What does that mean, exactly?” He almost whispered. It barely sounded like a question. He hadn’t had time to think about the happenings in the period of his coma. Only the Before and the After.

Toris sighed again, searching for the proper words. “Look, if it’s going to upset you, don’t worry about it.” When Prussia responded by looking at him as if he was ready to start swinging, Lithuania continued. “Fine. He bathed you once a week. I don’t know if he fed you at all - it doesn’t look like it. He took water in there with him sometimes.” Toris left out the part where Russia disappeared behind the door to what was now Prussia’s room for hours at a time.

Gilbert couldn’t respond to that immediately. The concept of Russia standing over his naked lifeless body and running his hands wherever he liked made Gilbert feel cold black spiders under his skin. He tried to suppress the thought with all his might but the feeling didn’t recede.

“What do you mean, ‘it doesn’t look like it?’” He tried to shift his thoughts elsewhere. Gilbert already figured out that he was weak. Until now, he’d attributed it to being sedentary for such a long time. He’d been making a conscious effort not to look at his own body in fear of what he would find. He certainly felt worse. Now that he knew it to be fact that he looked as scrawny as he felt, he couldn’t help but feel a prick of worthlessness.

“See for yourself. There’s a standing mirror on the back wall. It’s quite filthy, though,” Lithuania suggested quietly, unsure if he was making the right decision.

Prussia looked in the direction of Lithuania’s finger and saw the faint glint of glass beyond the surrounding darkness. His heart sunk slightly.

Gilbert walked anyway. It didn’t feel like his choice to do this, but what choice did he have here after all? He stood before the mirror while he couldn’t make out the details of his reflection in the dark. The surreality of it struck him a few moments after the deeper fear took hold. He saw himself as nothing but a shadow in a world of shadows, indifferent and alone.

With the demeanor of a man doing a job he does not want to do, Prussia gripped the wood of the round sides on the ungodly thing. It felt heavier than most things he can remember carrying, yet it held no weight at all.

He dragged it out into the little circle of light. Toris stared at him reproachfully, which Gilbert sensed rather than saw. Prussia set the thing down lightly and stepped away.

Now the shadow he called himself before had a face he didn’t recognize. It had a body like a haint and eyes full of diluted blood and crooked pink veins. It’s mouth opened in apparent shock, revealing a deep black pit of unusually white teeth that peeked out from bloodied dry lips. It looked like someone stretched thin white plastic over a rigid form of a person and added angry blotches of red for effect.

Prussia nearly retched with dizziness as the world around him swayed. He took his eyes off the ghastly thing to look accusingly at the walls and the floor. Turning his back to the reflection felt like driving away from a crime scene with the corpse in the trunk of the car. Gilbert didn’t know what he expected, but he definitely didn’t see a former empire. He didn’t see a nation or even a man. He didn’t see a decent older brother or son. Gilbert had seen a memory.

“We should go,” Toris suggested as if nothing of importance happened.

Gilbert did nothing but stare at him for a few lingering seconds. Lithuania appeared to be much farther away than he presently stood, just a tiny shape encased in darkness. He took a few steps forward and then turned around, waiting for Prussia to follow him like some obedient dog.

Gilbert hardly saw the motion. His eyes watered with tears that would never fall and his chest heaved with breath that wouldn’t come. He turned to face the mirror again, looking at it but not seeing anything. Perhaps that was for the best, as Gilbert still felt the rush of strange numb-emotions whizzing in his mind after gazing into it.

The blessing of being blind to the thing right in front of him did not last. Prussia’s eyes focused in time, revealing his reflection.He watched the surrounding darkness threaten to overtake a figure he did not recognize as himself. This time around, he felt a fire rising within him, a sharp wave of fear that was so sudden and intense it made the seconds ahead of him lengthen to minutes.

His arm shot out in front of him and the mirror exploded into dozens of tiny blades. The spot where his face used to be was now a black empty hole encircled by large slits of glass. Shattering the glass was much quieter than Gilbert expected, it was a dull thud compared to the feeling of knives in his knuckles. One shard cut a line on top of his hand as it fell, splitting the skin open.

Lithuania gasped, it sounded miles away, easily overridden by the iron smell of blood that took up Prussia’s whole being. That smell froze him in time, forcing him to stay in the present. It was the only thing keeping him conscious. Slowly, he came down from the state of shock, though the lingering metallic scent made him sure he would not forget the surreal feeling of it.

Despite the supposed quietness of the breaking glass, Toris glanced between the ceiling above and the steps leading out of the basement apprehensively. They both listened for footsteps in the silence. When none came, Lithuania took a few tentative steps toward him.

Prussia jerked his head away from the mirror to face him. He must’ve been wide eyed and mad looking, judging by the face Toris gave him in response.

This time, when Toris started to walk, Gilbert followed him on legs that shook and stumbled forward. Still dazed, he was led to the same room where the day had started. At certain intervals on the way to the door, Lithuania threw him looks that made him feel like he was crazy. He opened the door to let himself in. Once it closed, Gilbert faced the room with contempt.

The bed was a coffin and the dim moonlight coming in from the window made the shape of a dark shadow in the center of the room.

It made Prussia feel like a child afraid of the dark. If he took his eyes off the thing, he feared he would feel Russia’s cold hands all over him. Staring at the dark made void-like static crackle at the edges of his vision, and every time he blinked the figure in the center of the room twitched like a broken machine.

Sitting in the bed-coffin became more and more uncomfortable. The thing was cold (by now Gilbert knew he could not create the body heat to make it warm) and his brain tried to tell him of weight on the bed that was not his own. Sometimes a draft breathed down his neck. Each time he jerked his head to make sure he was alone, he turned back to find the darkness in his initial focus had moved or changed.

As tedious and anxiety inducing a process this was, it made him tired after a while. The drowsiness scared him more than anything else had. Sleeping entailed waking up, a fact that Gilbert resented years after waking up with a body on top of his.

Instead of waiting to find out if it would happen again, Prussia stood up. The bed creaked after his departure. He pretended not to hear voices in the noise.

Taking his eyes off of the thing proved more difficult than he would’ve liked to admit. Wrapping his hand around the ice doorknob woke him up well enough. Methodically he turned his hand and pulled back. The creaking that ensued felt like the loudest thing in the world, but no one had come running for him yet.

Before he knew it, he stood outside the halls of red, alone. Cautiously and without direction, he began to walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from another Brown Bird song - this one was about (I think) the way of the world/how 'the messenger will always be to blame'. It has a few lines about the short moments of soundness between the chaotic haze of life. Most of it sounds like old-man-moral-babble, but it probably has a really deep meaning that I have yet to sit down and see.
> 
> So, how was this chapter?


	5. THE OVERCOAT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another day in Russia's house. Prussia develops a sense of constant numbness, the baltics get bullied, and Russia has feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOO! This took forever, I had it written some time in January and then I forgot it existed. Whoops. It's set at about the time when the border between East and West Germany was closed (but the border between East and West Berlin remained open). Hope it turned out well! Please tell me if it did/didn't and why if you feel so inclined.
> 
> Thank you to AquariaMoon for beta-ing again!

May 26, 1952

The dull thwack of axe on wood came from a place just out of Gilbert’s mental reach, even as each swing snaked pain through his shoulders. The woodpile beside him had grown substantially since he started; from a small cluster of kindling sticks, which came to his knees, to a set of organized blocks that almost spanned the length of the house and stood at Prussia’s height. He didn’t feel a shred of accomplishment for it, Gilbert couldn’t remember most of the work process. Prussia’s body was on autopilot when he walked out into the cold before sunrise, and it he stayed on autopilot until the sun dove behind the trees in the West. His mind found his nightmares and migraines more entertaining than the chopping, moving, and stacking of firewood for a home that could never be warm.

The growing collection of firewood had been Gilbert’s assignment for nearly a week now. Standing out in the freezing daylight under the bone white sky while he split apart block after block wasn’t killing him fast enough. _We’re running out of fuel_ , Russia had said before dispatching Gilbert to fall apart and lose his mind in this icy hell. It certainly wasn’t as cold as it could’ve been, when the _real_ winters set in, but Gilbert seldom thought of that while the wind roared in his ears and his joints screamed in pain.

Ivan watched him sometimes. He knew this unfortunately well. He once stopped swinging to catch his breath and stare of into the tempting world of dense forest surrounding him. The same wind that screamed obscenities into his ears passed through the greenery harshly, forcing the leaves and branches to brush against each other. The sound was enchanting, like waves hitting a beach somewhere else. The whole forest moved to the wind, a huge living thing with a beating heart that pulsed in the distance. Gilbert took in a deeper breath, letting the cool air singe his lungs. For a brief moment, he could’ve been somewhere different.

Prussia heard the scene shatter before he could think about returning to reality again. The door from behind him opened so furiously that it hit the outer wall. Gilbert whipped around like a gunshot had torn through the air. He ended up facing Russia, who was quick to get in his face and demand his reason for not working. Prussia didn’t remember his attempt at responding. It didn’t matter, Russia’s reaction would’ve turned out the same if he’d spat in his face and condemned Stalin himself. Ivan must’ve seen the yearning in his eyes, he split a few of Prussia’s ribs in two and denied him dinner as punishment.

Since then, Prussia made a point to focus on the task at hand. His own submission made him ashamed when he had the chance to think about it, usually at night, when the world was silent, cold, and lonely. But when there was work to do, he could afford to let himself get distracted by his other awful thoughts as he swung the axe down.

_Light from the kerosene lamp at his desk flickered lazily, giving the paper in front of him a dirty-yellow tint that made his pen strokes look like black snakes over sand in the desert. Prussia struggled to keep his eyes open in the dark of the night, even as his spine hunched uncomfortably over his desk and the carpels in his hand ached with overuse. He damned himself over and over for neglecting to write the letter at the time. Now he can’t remember who it was for or what it was about. To someone important for something important, surely._

__

_The matter and recipient of the letter had been long forgotten, the fact that it kept him up at ungodly hours of the night remained. Gilbert was barely able to keep his eyes open, the midnight sounds threatened to lull him to sleep. His writing probably suffered for it, although he wouldn’t come to acknowledge this._

_Gilbert’s hand slurred and corrected itself for the fourth time when a quiet sound caught his tired attention. A quick tapping noise from the other end of the room, behind the door. Prussia dropped his pen mid sentence and stood up slowly, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He didn’t bother to push the chair back under his desk._

_The knocking became a bit more insistent, Prussia sighed heavily. Very few people would dare to disturb him this late at night, especially not when he was working. A combination of dread and agitation grabbed at him as he walked to the door, trying to prepare himself for bad news. He jerked it open and looked his visitor in the face._

_Gilbert instantly regretted the harsh movement. He peered down to see his little brother, who stood just under the height of his hips. Ludwig stayed behind the door, flinching at the harsh opening. He had his arms wrapped around himself, staring up at Gilbert with big, apprehensive eyes. Prussia stared back with poorly contained shock._

_Ludwig hadn’t shown up to his door like this in years, back when the top of his head was the height of Prussia’s knees. The kid had spent the past few years determined to prove that he wasn’t a kid. He’d requested his own room, wandered off alone, and became as stubborn and independent as possible. Gilbert begrudgingly gave him these things, although it hurt him to see his little brother try and grow up so fast. He just made sure the kid knew he had a place for him if he needed it._

_Ludwig appeared to take Gilbert’s shocked silence as a cue to start explaining himself._

_“M’ room’s cold,” he mumbled, sounding younger and smaller than Gilbert heard in an eternity. His eyes were red but he wasn’t crying. Prussia’s heart clenched in remembrance. He hadn’t needed any persuasion, but that voice brought him out of his trance._

_Prussia stepped aside and opened the door, inviting Ludwig in. He silently decided that he wouldn’t press on whatever upset the kid enough for him to resort to to coming up here. Instead, he waited for Ludwig to carefully walk by him. Then, he kicked the door shut softly, a stark contrast to how he’d opened it._

_“C’mere,” Prussia said, tired gentleness still in his voice despite being fully awake. He didn’t give his little brother a choice when he hauled him up and carried him to his desk. Gilbert stifled surprise at the lack of protest, then worried over it. He sat his brother in his lap and resumed writing._

_Years ago, this happened nightly. Ludwig sat by and watched his big brother write or work with childish fascination. His eyes followed Prussia’s hands attentively, Prussia took notice of this early on. Before Ludwig could read, Gilbert used to occasionally read a sentence aloud while writing it. Occasionally, Ludwig would stop him and ask what a word meant._

_Years later, it felt different. Ludwig still fit into Gilbert’s arms without any issues, but he was heavier. Stronger. His light blond hair darkened over time, Prussia noticed. It went from rivaling his own pale hair to the color it would come to be for the rest of his life. His eyes had changed as well, just a shade darker, only noticeable to Gilbert, who looked into those eyes every day he had the chance._

_And instead of looking attentively at the words under Prussia’s hand, those eyes were shut. His face was buried into Prussia’s shoulder, either to hide his crying or prevent it from starting up again. Gilbert took his free hand and put it on the back of his brother’s head, like he would’ve done in the past. Eventually, the kid’s breathing evened out. Prussia gave up on the letter, despite its importance. It would wait. For now, he’d cut out the lantern’s light and try to spare the kid the humiliation of being carried off to his bedroom._

_“Get up,” he ordered with absolutely no conviction, shaking Ludwig as lightly as possible. Predictably, Ludwig remained asleep in his arms._

_“C’mon,” he tried again, slightly louder. He was still whispering. Ludwig did nothing._

You give me no choice, _Gilbert thought mischievously. He got of the chair with the kid attached to his side and lead them through the dark._

_Prussia smirked to himself. He didn’t go downstairs, he carried Ludwig to his bed and laid him down. Ludwig took his tiny arms and curled into the blanket in his sleep. A familiar warmth came to him, it left him smiling like an idiot in the dark, staring at his kid brother. Then Gilbert joined him, and like the thousands of nights before, he followed him into sleep._

_After that night, Gilbert never got the chance to hold him like that again._

Then there were tears in Prussia’s eyes that had nothing to do with the raging winds. Maybe if he wasn’t so fucking _weak_ , none of this would have happened. His insides shriveled up and contracted. Gilbert fought to remain standing, his legs shook with the effort. The axe fell to the ground with a muted thump. Prussia didn’t hear it, everything was far away. The memory fell over him like the snow in a blizzard, choking the rest of the world out in cold, white light. Prussia stumbled back to the nearest wall and grabbed the first thing he could get his hands on in a desperate attempt to stay conscious.

When he risked opening his eyes, he was both relieved and disappointed to find that he was still present. He pried his damn near arthritic hand away from the blocks of wood that leaned up against the walls of Russia’s house and looked down at them. In addition to being red, blue, and unmoveable, there was now a small set of ugly splinters digging under his skin. He took a shaky step forward, trying to get back to work before Russia noted the lack of chopping. It hurt to breathe. Those bittersweet memories were out to kill him.

The door behind him creaked open tentatively. Prussia jumped and turned around, his fingers reflexively curling into his palms. They drove the splinters deeper into his hands. He fully expected Russia to walk out and give him a few new elbow bends until he heard-

“Russia wants you inside. Now.” Gilbert didn’t relax, but he did feel a smidge of relief that Russia’s voice wasn’t directed at him. It was Lithuania’s, quick and careful, now strained by poorly masked fear or rage. Toris had the same expressionless dread on his face that Gilbert had in his heart, looking like a child who didn’t quite want to understand what was happening. Prussia correctly guessed that the matter involved all of them.

Gilbert shook off the remains of the memory like mud off of a patch of skin as he followed Lithuania into the house. The cold in the house differed greatly from the cold outside, pain flared through his body at the switch. His fingers cracked when he tried to move them, and the ghost of the wind in his ears made his and Lithuania’s brisk footsteps seem like cricket chirps in comparison. Those footsteps were the only sound in the house until Prussia listened closer and caught Russia’s unrecognizable baritone words crawling through the hallways from elsewhere.

Toris lead them along, Russia’s voice became louder. Loud enough to discern anger in his tone, even if the anger wasn’t quite there yet. All of them knew better than to think Russia called them to drink tea and talk about their feelings.

“- understand what it is that I do for you? -” Russia snapped at the other Baltics from the kitchen, currently unaware of their presence behind him. Neither seemed keen on letting him know. Prussia busied himself with taking in the scene before him.

Russia faced Eduard and Raivis rigidly, his hands clenched into fists and his arms by his sides, barely attempting to keep in his rage at the general situation. Estonia held his head up as proudly as he dared, not meeting the floor or Ivan’s face. Gilbert took notice of the swollen, angry red hit over Estonia’s left eye, as well as the way Latvia held on timidly to an oddly bent wrist. Prussia couldn’t gauge who had gotten the better deal.

The purpose of the meeting quickly became apparent. Someone had stolen something from Russia. Since Gilbert had been in too much pain to rock the boat lately, that someone was most likely Estonia. Considering their meeting place in Russia’s kitchen, that something was most likely food. Even though all of them were wearing thin these days, Prussia guessed the thievery came from a place of defiance rather than desperation. He’d done similar things for the same reasons, albeit not recently. He was getting tired too early in the day, the brain-splitting headaches that haunted him in the night were impossible to sleep through.

Seeing Ivan standing irritably in front of them, Prussia had the capacity to empathize without feeling sorry for Estonia. _Better him than me._ The thought surprised him, but he didn’t wish it away. It was evidence of an undeniable fact: he had no friends here. Later he would worry that bits of Russia were wearing off on him.

Russia turned around to find his other servants in the doorway, just as he ordered. Toris went in on Ivan’s cue, Gilbert followed behind with less enthusiasm. They both walked straighter under Russia’s gaze. Lithuania joined his brothers and Prussia stood left of them, an outcast. When the four of them were lined up like perfect toy soldiers, Russia resumed talking down to them.

“You have shelter,” he started in his falsely calm voice. “You have protection… You have water… You even have food! I let you all sleep in my house, and for what? For you to steal from me? To steal from one another?” Ivan appeared to want to say more, but he did not. Prussia watched his false serenity fall off like paint off a mask.

In response, they looked to the floor like scolded children. A clock ticked by from its place on the wall, reminding everyone of the time that wasn’t passing. Latvia held his wrist. Toris held his hands together, fingers crossed over each other as if in a prayer. Estonia picked at his arms until red marks appeared. Prussia’s hands fell uselessly to his sides as he tried not to blink wrong and risk Russia’s wrath.

“Why?” Ivan asked no one, in a voice too quiet to be his. It sounded too frustrated. Too emotional to be Russia’s voice. “Why,” Russia repeated, but it was no longer a question. It wasn’t an order either. His speaking took on a apathetic tone that Gilbert recognized from when Russia sometimes talked to his boss over the phone. It was a tone with no consideration, a tone that meant strictly business. He glanced at the Baltics, who seemed equally apprehensive.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” He suddenly demanded, sounding properly pissed off again. The switch shocked no one, but they way Russia turned around and nearly shouted made Latvia flinch. Russia sensed that none of them would voluntarily make things worse for themselves, therefore he would force them to.

Lithuania tried first, “Sir, he only-”

“Not you!” Russia cut him off sharply, settling his gaze on Eduard. Gilbert could feel the hate off Ivan’s eyes. “Estonia,” he ordered, “Answer me.”

Estonia looked to Russia with a tired, fearful look that said more than he could ever hope to get across verbally. He took a deep breath, slowly. He opened his trembling mouth, only for it to shut a moment later. The process repeated, he looked like a puppet with a string twitching behind his jaw. As the sole reason for the impending beating and current object of Russia’s rage, Estonia found that he had nothing to say.

Prussia couldn’t blame him the way he wanted to. Ivan seethed at his response, just like he would’ve no matter what Eduard said. He learned as fast as the rest of them; Ivan liked to ask questions where all the possible answers were wrong.

“You took more than you needed, more than you could get away with. There must be a reason, yes?” Russia paused, giving Eduard another chance to say the wrong thing. Estonia said nothing, staring straight ahead, undoubtedly praying that he’d wake up in a ditch somewhere.

“Is this how you want to keep living?” Ivan asked sincerely. He didn't say it loudly, but it echoed off the walls. “Keep stealing! This is exactly what would happen to you if I left you to be! Don’t you understand? Turn away from me and your peasant families will starve. You want to lose your soul? We’re meant to be equal here. I’m sorry that I have to make you understand this.”

With the last word, Russia walked over to the cabinets and threw their doors open. Gilbert caught Eduard shifting uncomfortably out of the corner of his eye. The start of Russia’s sick justice was about to commence.

His large, pale hands reached into the cabinet, taking out a tall cylindrical glass with a delicately curved handle jutting out from the side. Ivan inspected it for a few moments, weighing it in his hand and staring into the mouth of it. The four servants flashed similar looks of confusion to one another. At least he didn’t go for the knives? Later, Prussia realized he was seeing the thickness of the glass.

Russia raised the glass above his head by the handle, as if celebrating. He held it there momentarily, until every eye in the room was on him. Time stopped, nobody dared to breathe. Gilbert’s icy blood pounded in his ears, though Russia stood ten feet away from him. Despite the distance, all of them flinched when Ivan threw the glass down onto the floor.

It shattered into dozens of shards and flew across the linoleum in all directions. The sound of the breaking glass broke the faux quiet. Russia appeared pleased with the sound. The handle of the former glass snapped into two pieces that fell inches apart. That was only the start.

The spectators looked on in a collective paralysis, slowly realizing what Russia intended to happen. The glasses came down one after the other, filling the distance between them with the broken shards. The remains of curved wine glasses reached out of the floor like arms or shattered shells. The thin glasses without handles exploded on impact, leaving behind random assortments of fragmented shapes. Some of them fell to the floor with the bottoms intact, rings of glass like crowns with knives sticking out at the top.

More glass fell and shattered. Five glasses. Six. Seven. Ten. Prussia stopped counting and closed his eyes. The sharp sound of the falling cups started to pound against his head. A slight nausea fell through him.Pain started to build behind his eyes, the beginnings a terrible headache.

When he opened his eyes again, the tiles on the floor in front of him had turned into a sea of broken glass. The light above glinted off the pieces, giving the illusion of shiny, soulless eyes looking up from the ground. For the first and last time that night, he felt a twinge of sympathy for Estonia. Then he promptly went back to waiting for the shattering to stop.

Once it did, he couldn’t see a patch of ground between them and Russia that wasn’t laced with something sharp. Ivan stood at the end of the gauntlet, completely still. Deciding he’d done enough, Russia closed the cabinet doors almost casually. He faced the four of them nonchalantly, as if he’d simply been looking through the cabinets without finding anything of interest.

“Estonia,” he announced again, almosting teasingly. Gilbert wished he couldn’t hear him. “Take off your shoes and start walking.”

Eduard did nothing at first. Prussia believed he wished he couldn’t hear Ivan either. Estonia contemplated the floor like it was a problem he needed to solve. All the different shapes and sizes of jagged, broken knives stared back at him emptily. He started taking of his shoes, painfully slowly. They landed uselessly beside him. Estonia made a show of taking off his socks as well, bringing a foot up to the opposing knee and slowly unfurling stalling as much as he dared. The sad protest of someone who wasn’t in any position to protest.

Eduard hesitated again once he placed his bare feet on the cold floor. Russia became impatient with him, most likely adding more laps to Estonia’s punishment.

“Face forward, don’t look down. Walk normally,” Russia said, thus solving Estonia’s problem and dissolving his hesitance. If he waited a few more seconds, Ivan would make him crawl across it blindfolded.

Prussia’s attention rushed back back to the scene when he heard a sickening crunch, followed by Latvia gasping softly. It was a small choked noise, the only one any of them dared to make. Lithuania put a hand on his shoulder in a quiet gesture of comfort, trying to make sure it wouldn’t happen again. Russia looked past Estonia, right at the two of them. Like he wanted to get at them for being close to one another.

Gilbert couldn’t see Eduard’s face from his place behind him, but he pictured his red, swollen eye full of hate and pain trying to glare at Russia.

Estonia hissed quietly at the next step. The first red line of blood spilling out of his foot and onto the floor. He took another step, lifting the back of the already injured foot carefully. A cut appeared on his heel, inflicted by one of the thick glass shards that shifted under him and snapped up into his skin. Behind him, the tip of a broken glass gleamed with his blood.

Another step. The curve of a broken wine cup stabbed into the soft middle of his other foot. He bit the inside of his mouth to avoid screaming. His hand reached up to his face, covering his eyes and wiping the sweat off his forehead. It was all he could do to keep from looking down. He felt the thin glass break off into smaller pieces inside his foot. He might’ve heard them break, too, if not for the sound of his heaving heart and harsh breathing.

More tense silence, then the sound of stepping on barbed cicadas. Minutes passed before he made to the middle of the floor. Prussia could’ve sworn half an hour went by. For Eduard, it must’ve felt like an eternity. He fell into a pattern of pausing every few steps to withstand the pain, painting the floor with each footfall and driving the glass deeper into his feet.

Russia spoke again. His voice sounded unnatural, some kind of intrusion on the ritual that he orchestrated.

“You think you’re moving forward, but you aren’t. You’re going back and forth and hurting yourself,” he said philosophically. “You’re stealing to make it better for yourself.” He spoke as a parent to an unruly child, chastising and condescending. Then an air of satisfaction seeped into his voice, “Walk faster.”

Estonia tried, seven steps in quick succession and he was at the other end of the line. He stopped at the end and took a few sobbing breaths before trying to turn around. The shards of glass twisted around under him, inside his skin. He could no longer feel the sting of each individual glass, it morphed into one burning pain in his nerves.

Prussia looked away when Estonia faced them again. Out of the corner of his eye, Eduard walked with a strange desperation. As if he was being pulled along by rope while wearing cement shoes. It hurt to watch, especially with Eduard’s bright blue eyes filling with tears, so Gilbert didn’t. He stared off elsewhere and tried not to feel the pain pulsing through his head. It hurt to listen as well, but Gilbert couldn’t do anything about that without Russia getting at him.

After Estonia was forced to turn back around, Prussia passed the time by counting Estonia’s footsteps, then the number of laps he’d completed. Gilbert stopped when he watched Estonia’s heel dig straight into one of the glasses with the bottoms still intact, where all the glass stood straight up. Latvia made a sound that was similar to crying but not quite there yet. Estonia’s head jerked down without his permission, seeing his bloodied feet for the first time. It shocked him into not moving for a moment, surely he knew he was hurt, but he probably hadn’t expected quite as much blood. Russia saw this and said nothing, likely adding more to Eduard’s torture in his mind.

The rest of the gauntlet was over within half an hour. It ended with Estonia grabbing onto the counter hard enough to push his nails into his fingers, crying silently and pushing off Toris and Raivis when they got close. Gilbert felt an immediate pang of anger at him, it replaced itself with the same sharp envy he was familiar with from earlier on in his stay.The three of them got to have each other, to have the thing that Gilbert hadn’t seen in years. Some nights, he feared he’d never have it again. After Estonia got over himself, he listened to the other two whisper at him. Prussia couldn’t imagine what they were saying, but the light, almost whiny tones made the pounding in the back of his head louder. He took a fraction of a step away from them, fully aware that he didn’t really have anywhere to go.

Prussia felt indescribably out of place. Outcast and alone. Tired of the Baltics and their broken togetherness, his eyes followed Estonia’s trail of blood, which left splattering dark red footprints over the shiny white linoleum. He followed it all the way up to Ivan, who was watching him back. It hurt to look at Russia, to think about Russia. Gilbert felt a familiar sickness stirring in him. For one horrible moment, their eyes met. There was nothing in his face that pitied anyone, but anger wasn’t there either. Not even contempt was visible. Just a strange, faraway expression that Gilbert chose not to try and read. He didn’t want to risk being right in classifying it as sympathetic. Ivan knew about feeling loneliness and exile, knew them well enough to recognize them in other people.

Ivan was also partially responsible for Prussia’s imprisonment, so he was a bastard. _Dammit,_ Gilbert cursed to himself, forcing himself to look away. Ivan was a bastard who _understood._ Prussia dreaded having anything in common with him. He chose to believe that he wouldn’t act on his envy if he had Ivan’s power. He chose to believe that he didn’t find it the least bit satisfying when Russia looked the other servants with careful disgust.

The Baltics shut up the moment they heard it. The sound of glass under weight, Russia taking steps toward them in his thick boots. Despite the unbearable pain in his feet, Estonia moved back a few steps as Russia advanced. Latvia and Lithuania did likewise, leaving Prussia to breathe in the diseased air around Ivan.

“Step away from him,” Ivan told Toris and Raivis. They reluctantly detached themselves from Eduard’s side. Gilbert was thankful for the silence, if only temporarily. He immediately felt a burning regret at this, it shifted the other two closer to him. He wished he hadn’t noticed the tears in Lithuania’s eyes, or the horror on Latvia’s face.

The night was far from over.

-

Russia passed through the halls of his home for the last time that night. The frigid, silent air followed him into his room, where the darkness touched every corner and breathed into his eyes. Ivan shut the door behind him and closed his eyes briefly. Nothing changed when he opened them again. He didn’t need to see, nor did he want to. The lamplight always burned into his eyes on nights like this.

He didn’t bother to change out of his coat, just kicked his boots off and listened to them clattering to the carpet. It was a defeated sound. His socks came of soon after, he tossed them in the same direction. Ivan walked barefoot in the darkness numbly until he reached his bed, the largest his house had to offer. It was also the coldest. The springs grinded together as he laid down onto the mattress, still fully dressed. He did not have the energy to get up to change, and no one could come by and correct him. Ivan stared off into the dark of the ceiling, alone and uninterrupted. He couldn’t close his eyes. Like everyone else, sleep avoided him whenever it was awarded the chance.

Time passed by hazily without any notice for the first part of the night. A silence that no one dared to break, _his_ silence. Ivan tried to feel proud, his word was law and his servants obeyed, even if he had to restore order every once in a while. He felt nothing. Some nights he tried to convince himself that they followed his rules out of respect, though his arguments to himself were never very convincing. He lied himself to sleep sometimes, though the lies got harder and harder to believe with every passing day. He had friends. He had a family. There were people who cared about him. One day, the ends would justify the means, and he would be forgiven. Until that day, Russia forced himself to live in the silence and the darkness.

He lived there until the silence broke softly. Quiet ghost whispers from the room adjacent to his. Ivan didn’t recognize any single voice at first, but that didn’t make it sting any less. He lay paralyzed and listened. The Baltics thought he was asleep. Ivan knew from experience, their voices would rise later in the night, when they became more sure of themselves. He dreaded being able to make out their words.

Not that it mattered, after all. He had a pretty good idea of what they said when they thought he wasn’t listening. A few curt words that cut into the air and sounded like hissing snakes; most likely cursing his name. A softer noise that he could barely hear, consoling and understanding. Then, a conversational tone jumped in, sudden and distracting, but still quiet and careful. The process repeated itself a few times. A muted sob pierced the wall, entirely accidental. Ivan realized what they were doing behind that wall and his throat clenched up.

They were taking the glass out of Estonia’s feet, shard by shard. Morbidly, Ivan supposed nothing could be done for their own injuries. The process went on forever, with big gaps in between where the three of them spoke longingly of better times. Times before Russia came along, when the three of them could still smile without looking so unforgettably jaded. They sounded wistful, nostalgic, even homesick when they lost themselves in the world without him.

Russia squirmed uncomfortably to hold his arms around his heaving chest. The movement made the headboard rap against the wall lightly. The Baltics heard him, they went quiet for half a minute or so. Long enough to make sure Ivan hadn’t woken up. They continued when they knew Ivan wasn’t going to break in and tear their family apart again.

Every second was torture for Russia. Estonia and Lithuania had gotten slightly louder, more confident. They did it without knowing, Ivan deduced. Their words became more clear, Russia listened closer. Inside, he wanted to stick something sharp into his ears and dig until the eardrums came out. The idea hurt less than listening to the people he considered his only family talk about freedom and happiness and leaving him alone forever.

Russia pushed down his urges to stand up and leave before the cold swallowed him. A million nights before this one, he’d done something similar. It all hurt too much to listen through, he wouldn’t be able to make them stop without having them see the blatant distress on his face. He could wait this out for a few more minutes, maybe he’d close his eyes and try to pretend that he was one of them and he had a family. Maybe pretending would work for once.

It didn’t, Russia hadn’t expected it to. The three of them stopped talking for a few minutes. Russia hoped that they were done saying things that made the anger and envy well up inside of him. Unfortunately, they were far from finished with tearing his chest into pieces.

A soft, rising sound floated through the walls, so quiet he could barely hear it. When he recognized it for what it was, he was frozen where he lay. Russia couldn’t move if he wanted to. Hot tears fell out of his eyes and froze to his face. The soft rising sound stayed quiet, but got stronger, new voices joining in. The voices swayed together in a mournful rhythm, the sad beauty of a small church choir.

The Baltics were singing. They were singing in a house that had tried to shut out God. Russia sobbed softly. They reserved this practice for particularly hard nights when Russia was especially angry with them for being together. For being more of a family than he could ever hope to have. Still, Russia listened to them, it was all he could think to do. He battled the urge to throw himself out of bed and put a stop to it, but he couldn’t let them see him like this. Besides, if he opened that door and the three of them laid close together like a family, it would hurt Russia too much. Next came the urgent need to get out of the house.

He’d done it once before, when the Toris sung so softly and tearfully while trying to get Latvia to calm down enough to sleep. His door slamming made them stop on a dime, he hated picuring their relief when his footfalls stomped off in a direction other than their room. Russia hadn’t slept that night, he stayed outside in the cold, leaning up against the ice walls of his house and sobbing into the lonely air. The cold clawed at him the wind screamed in his ears, but it hurt less than staying inside.

The singing stopped eventually, and late that night, when Russia was the last awake, he felt the same familiar rage start to build up inside of him. The three brothers would wake up together and bask in one another’s comforting presence as they tried to make it through the day.

Russia woke up alone.

-

Prussia layed down to sleep that night, the events of hours passed playing on the backs of his eyelids like horror movies as his brain pounded a drum in the center of his head. The sound of Eduard’s pained hissing and Raivis’ sorrowful crying in his ears didn’t get to him like it used to. The pain within him officially surpassed the pain of the people around him. During his stay, the bizarre had become normal, and the normal had become bizarre. Prussia changed against his will, all the watching made some parts of his soul numb. No matter how hard he wanted out, no matter how hot the rage burned him, he was a pawn just by living here.

After the distractions went away and Prussia laid alone in his bed, he was afraid of his thoughts. He used to be afraid of invasion, assimilation, death.

He needed to get out of Russia’s house. He needed to go home.

Prussia’s dreams haunted him now more than ever. They persisted since his first night at Russia’s house, but they’d only gotten worse in the past few months. He couldn’t help but feel that some horrible event was going to happen soon. With the migraines that Darkness was on its way, surely. Something worse than being forced to live under Ivan was to be feared in the highest degree.

The nightmares happened differently each time. Watching the house he and his brother shared burn with both of them inside. Scratching at his skin until it peeled down his body in pale bloody sheets. Russia reaching into his stomach and pulling out his guts. A blizzard trapping them all inside the house while Russia got worse. Gilbert woke up breathless, shocked, and unable to move. It didn’t matter whether he remembered the nightmares or not.

No matter how he fell asleep, if he fell asleep, he woke up as tired and jaded as before.

Lately (about the same time the headaches arrived), he’d been having the same dream about his first night with Russia. He would walk out of his room tentatively, just as he did in reality. All his dreams started in the real world, then devolved into improbable mazes of horror. He walked down the hallway stiffly, the soft carpet below somehow feeling like needles in to the bottoms of his feet. Prussia did not know where he was headed or why, just that he needed to walk. Impossibly, he was still calm. The calm was a blindfold, a kind of numbness that weighed a ton and couldn’t be forced out by him. He generally walked on the same path he had that night, left of his room and around the corner. Prussia slowly leaned his head out by the edge of the wall. A large figure stood completely still in the center of his vision. Russia on the other end of the hall, a good few yards in front of him.

He had his head behind a door, thankfully (for Prussia, at least). Russia was looking intently into the Baltic’s shared room. Strangely, the image of a proud father looking in on his sleeping children seeped into Prussia’s mind and banished itself accordingly. He saw Russia smiling into that room in his mind, it made his throat go dry and he thought at any moment Russia would turn around and give the same face splitting smile to him.

Then the nightmare would diverge from reality. Instead of Prussia slowly slinking off to his room again, he would only stand still. He would stand until Russia turned to look at him. That’s when the calm shattered. He writhed and struggled within his own mind, which was overwhelmed with the urge, the need to run away as fast and as far as possible. Sometimes Russia smiled, other times he didn’t. Once Russia did not have a face. Sometimes Prussia ran, most often he stayed there, paralyzed. It felt like being tied down in a room of rising water. He always woke up drowning.

He had to get out of here. That was the plain and simple truth. He needed to be able to breathe again. Prussia knew that if he stayed here for one second too long, it would kill him. He’d be dissolved. Everything he’d ever built would come crashing down on him. The sun would set in the West, never to rise again. He’d join all the other mortal men in death. Every soldier buried in the name of his land would’ve died for nothing. He’d become a memory. The world would forget and move on without him.

The finality of it hung around him like flies on a carcass, and the fear he’d kept back thus far began to take firm hold again. It overpowered him easily, dug its fingers into his spine and hauled him around as it pleased. It told him a billion terrible things, made itself stronger, and became chief director of his thought processes.

Escape quickly became the only thing in his mind. Escape from whatever impending doom lay ahead. Ivan did a swell job of being infuriatingly closed mouthed on the issues, though Gilbert knew something was wrong. Some danger ahead. It was a semi-familiar intuition, his people knew something that he didn’t. He felt like he was losing blood through a wound he couldn’t see.

Gilbert started to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title based on another (was there a first? I can't remember) Kid Dakota song, 'The Overcoat' is also a peice of Russian literature. I thought it was fitting. The song is about a recovering drug addict/mental case wandering pointlessly through the northern winter holidays and presenting the listener with cold and lonely imagery. He references rereading The Overcoat in the song, feeling useless and whatnot. It's a nine-and-a-half-minute masterpeice, Darren Jackson has a really nice/haunting singing voice, too. He writes the best winter songs, if you ask me. 
> 
> Anyway, thoughts? Opinions? Ideas? Critisisms? I welcome everything, I'm just out here tryna improve.


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